


Fic Snippets: The Torch Project

by ffoulkes_no



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU, Fic Snippets, Gen, MCU!AU, short-fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-01-15 20:58:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18506959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ffoulkes_no/pseuds/ffoulkes_no
Summary: Tom knows the Torch is just as much a person as anyone.An MCU!AU.





	1. The Torch

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the same universe as "Introductions" and "Icebreaker."
> 
> A few short, displaced chunks from background stuff that likely will only be hinted at in "Icebreaker," if at all -- Fred and Tom's role in the handling of the Torch during the war, and Namor's (initially unintentional) involvement with things. Like "Icebreaker," these are disjointed bits that often won't make sense out of context, but since they might never see the light of day once "Icebreaker" is complete, I'm putting them up anyway.
> 
> The Torch, here, borrows somewhat from "Battle Hymn's" The Artificial Man... who was based on the Torch, in the first place. So I guess that makes this some sort of firey android orobos. Welp.

Fred pulled the capsule door down and pushed it into place. The inner chamber hissed as the oxygen was pulled out. Inside, the Torch writhed, the flames flaring and guttering, fighting for the last of the air. Behind him, there was a whimper.  
  
He'd been followed. Fred sighed, closing the capsule's viewing door with a soft click before turning to face the eavesdropper.  
  
“Tom,” he scolded, “you know the shutdown procedure upsets you. We've been over this.”  
  
Despite the worry at the edges of his eyes, the boy met Fred's gaze fearlessly. “I know, Pop. I just... I wanted t'be here for him.”  
  
Fred's look of concern went flat. “ _Him_?”  
  
Now Tom seemed to shrink down into the oversized jacket he wore, turtling into the collar.  
  
“Thomas,” and now the name was a warning, “I think I've been patient enough with your make-believe. You're fond of the Torch. I understand. It's a remarkable machine. But we are at war, now, and I don't have time to deal with the SSR, the Torch, _and_ your imagination–”  
  
“But–!”  
  
“No.” Fred didn't raise his voice. He rarely did. But his tone was firm. And final.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
The Torch landed in a roaring circle of flame and heat. Namor landed a ways off, far enough to escape the radiating pulses of superheated air that the Torch continued to produce, despite the slowly dying flames.  
  
A brown and grey blur went by like a shot. Namor's reflexes were just fast enough. He grabbed Tom by the back of the jacket, yanking him into the air.  
  
“Hey!”  
  
“Do you wish to burn, boy?”  
  
Tom wriggled, grabbing at Namor's hands, “Torch wouldn't hurt me! He's my friend! Leggo!”  
  
Namor dropped him to the ground, but kept a hold on the jacket all the same. “The heat from the machine is tremendous. It isn't a matter of friendship, only logic.” He tapped the boy's nose with a finger, mocking and patient all at once, “Robot hot. Don't touch.”  
  
Tom wheeled around under the grip, like a cat turning to bite. He met Namor's eyes, holding the stare with a glare that showed more than just the annoyance of a chided kid. “He won't hurt me,” he said, again. “He can control it! He's not just some dumb robot!”  
  
Namor's intended retort was interrupted by heavy footfalls, and a sudden wave of heat. It wasn't close to the temperatures the Torch reached when flying, or landing. But in the chill English morning, the change was immediate.  
  
The flames had completely subsided, leaving the android's human form visible. Large and imposing, even extinguished, the Torch seemed built to intimidate. And although the android's face was still the same blank mask it had been the last time Namor had seen it, the Torch's jaw was clenched, and Namor saw the glassy, unfocused eyes flicking between him and Tom.  
  
“It's okay!” Tom said, putting his hands up, “I was tryin' to tell 'em, Torch. You wouldn't hurt me.”  
  
The Torch's gaze fell fully on Namor, jaw tensing and untensing in a rhythmic motion. Namor squared his shoulders – if the machine wanted another fight, he would gladly oblige. This was the most emotion he'd ever seen from the humans' strange creation, and if the Torch's anger meant a second chance to test his mettle against a worthy opponent, then all the better. But there was something else there in the shining, doll-like eyes that Namor couldn't place.  
  
Tom, however, seemed to key in immediately. He shrugged as much as he could, with Namor still scruffing him like a disobedient kitten, “Namor was just making sure I was okay."  
  
Now the Torch turned back to Tom and, seemingly satisfied at the boy's explanation, relaxed. All at once the oven-hot air dissipated. The cool of the morning rolled in on the next breeze, displacing the oppressive heat and the last remnants of the acrid chemical smell of the Torch's flames.  
  
With the heat gone, Namor slowly released his grip. Tom closed the distance from the Torch, stopping just short, and pulled something from his jacket pocket. He held it out, grinning, “This is for you. G'won! Take it!”  
  
The Torch stared, then slowly extended a hand. Tom dropped a small, loose clump in the Torch's large palm. It was a seedling, roots still covered in a light ball of soil. The Torch ran a thumb over the edge of one of the leaves before looking up at Tom, head tilting.  
  
“I know you felt bad about burning the flower. I found one'a the seeds – figured we could plant it, y'know?”  
  
The sound of vehicles coming up the rough, dirt roads rolled over the hills. The Retrieval Team had finally figured the Torch's location.  
  
The Torch gently placed the seedling back in Tom's hand.  
  
“Yeah,” Tom sighed, “I guess some other time.”

 


	2. Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom and Namor talk.

Tom found Namor in one of the furthest Quonsets, a de facto records room for the SSR's neverending notes. Stacks of cardboard boxes sat along nearly every wall. Most had Fred's neat print labeling their contents.  
  
Namor had found the only window not completely blocked by Fred's zealous recordkeeping. It looked out and away, over rolling hills that faded quickly to inky black in the moonless evening. He stood, arms crossed, head down, seemingly deep in thought.  
  
The Atlantean still bore the marks from his fight with the Torch. His arms and chest were the tender, shining pink of a healing burn, but even that was still leagues from where he had been only a week before. If the injuries pained him, he didn't show it.  
  
“Hey,” Tom tried. Namor's position didn't change. The only sound in the room was the quiet ruffling as he re-adjusted his wings. Well, he didn't tell him to get lost, this time. “You don't have to stay in here. I mean, you could come join the other fellas in the mess.”  
  
“And why,” said Namor, “would I want to do that.”  
  
Tom faltered. He didn't actually have a good reason. It was just what folks there did. They ate together, then spent the evenings talking, laughing, playing cards. Tom couldn't see Namor playing cards. At a loss, he shrugged, relaying the warning his father had often given him, “You wouldn't want the rest a' the camp to think you're avoiding 'em.”  
  
“I do not care what the other humans think of me,” Namor said, punctuating his displeasure with a hissing exhalation from his gills.  
  
Tom caught the words, mulled them over. “You care about what _we_ think of you?”  
  
Namor blinked, slowly, turning and focusing on Tom's face for the first time. “I seek no human's approval,” he said. “But you and your father have called me friend.” He turned away, again, his gaze now on something beyond the Quonset's windows. “I do not hold that lightly.”

 


End file.
